


Not a good plan

by Rulerofthefakeempire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Everyone's kind of less screwed up in this one, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Peter Hale isn't evil, Screw up in the space time continum, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles-centric, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:12:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rulerofthefakeempire/pseuds/Rulerofthefakeempire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is thrown back into the eighties for some unknown reason and is immediately run over by a teenage version of his dad. Teaming up with a younger and slightly more romantic Chris Argent and just as sassy Peter Hale, he will try to get back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a good plan

This was some back to the future like shit, this was some total fuck up in the space time continuum, this was not good and he was not having fun. He was not having fun because it was 1984, his head hurt and nobody was making him pie. 

Also it was raining and he was fairly sure he had a broken rib and a concussion and he had just been hit by a car. 

He remembered pretty much everything, he remembered coming home from school, he remembered hugging his dad and playing video games and thinking about the day and where it had gotten him. And then he remembered not being where he had been before. He remembered being on a road in the middle of nowhere, with two bright head lights coming rushing towards him and the distinct knowledge that it was 1984 and he had no idea where he was. 

Someone was yelling at him, someone was asking him in a panicked voice if he was alright, but didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to answer, the world was moving without his consent and the someone was grabbing his shoulders. He blinked. 

“Oh my god,” the someone said, he was male whoever he was. “I am so sorry! Are you okay? Can you hear me? Shit!” If Stiles focused beyond his blurred vision he would be able to see that the guy was perhaps around his age, maybe a few years older. He was wearing a bomber jacket and had strong, noble features and bright brown eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” he muttered, waving a careless hand as he struggled to figure out which way was up and when he had gotten to lying down. Great, it was 1984 and he had just been hit by a car and… he was struggling to breath. He thought that was bad. He attempted to sit up, but instead all that happened was a great wave of pain and a strangled choking noise escaping his throat. He slammed back down onto the asphalt and wanted to cough, but thought that it would too much of painful past time to begin. 

“Jesus, you’re gonna be fine, totally fine,” the guy babbled unhelpfully. 

“Wonderful, if you could give me a ride to the hospital, I would really appreciate it….” Stiles felt like he was going to pass out. Actually he probably was going to pass out, that was positive. To put it simply, he was fairly content to just remain lying down for the next few hundred years. He could be a tourist attraction, he would’ve liked that. 

“Yeah, of course. Can you stand?” The guy fluttered over him, touching his forehead gingerly as if it would help. 

“I’m gonna say no.” He didn’t think that he had been badly injured, just enough for it to hurt like fuck and get him a few days off school. 

“Okay, okay, I’m just gonna get my friends so that they can help get you into the car, okay?” This guy really liked saying okay. Stiles nodded stiffly. “Don’t go anywhere.” And then he ran off, back to the car. Stiles could feel the heat of the headlights on one side of his face and he was readily becoming very cold. He wasn’t surprised, he was wearing just a shirt and his jeans and, in this time, it felt like winter. Snow was beginning to fall. 

He heard a flurry of voices coming from the car that had hit him, things like ‘Jesus, John, what did you do!?’ and ‘Is he okay?’ and ‘He must be freezing, where did he come from?’. He could only suppose that the he they were talking about was him. Eventually three pairs of footsteps began coming towards him, but he was tired. He was so tired and the world was still swaying violently. 

Three faces loomed above him and they all looked shockingly familiar. One had the bluest blue eyes he had ever seen, one had bright curly blond hair, and the third was the guy who was presumably named John. They all stared down at him and his own eyes began to slip closed and he didn’t wonder where he had seen them before. 

The blue eyed man leant down and picked him up, princess style, arms under his legs and shoulders and his head lolled back so that he was staring at the blond kid. They all seemed to be a little older than him, and not particularly traumatised. 

His ribs were killing him and he was finding it hard to breath, like something heavy was sitting on his chest, crushing and piercing his lungs, constricting his breath. Darkness like fire licked at the edges of his vision and suddenly all he could see or understand was the fact that he couldn’t think and the words “I think he passed out”.

When he awoke later he was in a car and it was moving steadily, blearily he opened his eyes and stared out at the road. They inched closer to the hospital and hopefully some serious antibiotics. He liked antibiotics, they were his favourite things, any day of the week. For a moment he entertained the idea that Melissa McCall would be there to greet him, but then he didn’t even know if she was out of high school yet. 

Someone clicked their fingers in front of his face and he attempted to focus. It seemed that he was in the front seat of a car with two other men, the one named John and the one with the blond hair. He could just see John’s knuckles white gripping the steering wheel and going at an alarming pace. 

He was in so much pain. 

“Hey, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?” It was the blond haired guy that spoke to him, looking into his eyes very seriously. 

“Stiles,” he croaked. His wrist hurt, so did everything, his head was pounded. 

“Stiles? What’s a Stiles?” John asked, sounding increasingly more frustrated. 

“My name.” Stiles continued, not having the energy to be offended. The blond guy nodded and patted his shoulders. 

“Great, my name is Christopher and that,” he pointed to the man in the drivers seat, “is John and that’s Peter.” Apparently he had been wrong to think there were only two men in the front seat with him for the blue eyed man he remembered from before waved at him from the window seat and smiled a grim smile. Again, familiarity where familiarity should not have been. 

Maybe it was because the last Peter he had ever met was a total psychopath. And the only Chris he knew had threatened him on numerous occasions and the only John he knew had changed his diapers. 

It was a weird world. 

“We’re going to get you to the hospital, alright Stiles? Stiles?” The voice began to fade away again and another wave of pain flooded him and he was leaving, he was so leaving. 

“I’m good,” he muttered before promptly passing out again. 

…

Somebody was talking to him, asking him is he could hear what they were saying and he was in a bed, a small, uncomfortable bed, but a bed nonetheless. Electrical lights were looking at him from the celling and he was looking back. Their was something in his nose, pushing air into his lungs and back out again and he was wearing a grown. He could only assume that he was in hospital. From where he lay it was becoming more and more obvious that it was, in fact, 1884 and he was slowly dying. Or at least he was pretty sure he was slowly dying, he couldn’t be certain. 

“Mr Stiles? Can you hear me? How are you feeling?” A woman’s face hovered above him and he blinked. Her hair was curly and dark and held up in a tight bun. Her face was aged, probably the same age as his dad back in his own time. She had a pleasant persona, the way that she smiled at him, the way that she was doing things at the same time as talking to him. 

“Not fabulous,” he mumbled. He wanted to go home, he wanted to be in his room, he wanted to call Scott and tell him about the weird dream he’d had. 

The woman smiled at him and he let one corner of his mouth twitch in response. 

“I’m not surprised after what happened to you. Can you tell me what happened?” He knew why she asked, she was checking that he could remember anything. He could, mostly. It was blurry in parts, but he got the gist. 

“I was in a… car accident,” he said slowly. The woman nodded and looked very pleased.  
“Good boy, thats true. You were, but you’re gonna be fine. You broke a few ribs, a concussion and your wrist is broken, but your gonna be just fine.” He nodded, feeling slightly more awake, or at least enough to realise that there was another person in the hospital room. The guy, dead asleep in the chair, John he remembered vaguely, the guy that had hit him. 

The woman didn’t seem to notice him looking. 

“Now, son, you’re going to need to tell me your name, age and any phone numbers so that we can call your parents, is that okay?” 

Stiles shook his head desperately. His mom was dead and his dad was in another time. There was no one else but him. 

“There’s no one to call,” he croaked. He could feel tears welling up in the pits of his eyes, he had screwed up this time, he had gotten himself into a mess that he barely understood and now he didn’t know how to get back out. The woman looked at him in concern, patting his arm and leaning closer to him. 

“Why’s that? Did something happen to them?” 

He felt his jaw quiver and a single tear steak down his cheek.

“I could tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me,” he answered, he sounded tired and old and years that he shouldn’t have had packed onto him like bricks. The woman stared at him in concern, he shouldn’t have looked that old, he shouldn’t have looked that sad. She wondered if she should ask John to leave so that she and the boy could speak clearly.

“Trust me boy, I would believe more than most.” She rubbed his arm and attempted to sooth him, suddenly all she wanted to do was get this boy back to his daddy, wherever the daddy was. 

The boy snorted as if he had heard that before, many times and it had never been true. 

“I was born in 1997, approximately 13 years from now.” He looked her right in the eyes and his heartbeat didn’t jump as he said it. 

“That’s absurd-” she began, but he wasn’t finished. 

“My name is Stiles Stilinski, my father is John Stilinski and he is the sherif of beacon hills. My best friend is named Scott McCall and he is in love with Allison Argent. I have another friend who’s name is Derek Hale and he terrifies me and all this happens in the year 2014.”  
She didn’t know how that could be, the year 2014 was almost thirty years from now and yet this kids was very adamant and he seemed to know about Derek. Derek hadn’t been born yet, but one day. Derek was the name that Talia was going to call her boy if she ever had one. Nobody knew that but her, there was no way this random boy could possibly know unless he actually was from a future where Derek was an actual person.

She sat down in a chair and ran her hands through her hair, thinking carefully. She had dealt with things like that before and she would deal with it again, but time traveling wasn’t as common in her vocabulary as most things. 

She didn’t think that the boy meant any harm, actually he just looked scared out of his wits and out of his depth, he looked like his parent had just walked out of him for good, he looked like he was on the verge of losing all hope. He made her want to smother him in love, because he looked like he deserved it, but first she had to check something. 

“My name,” she began, “Bethany Hale and do you know what I am?” Already she was calculating an excuse, something like ‘oops, I accidentally said what instead of who, I meant who’, something like that. 

“Hale?” The boy said brightening. “I suppose that makes you a werewolf doesn’t it?” The woman named Bethany flashed red eyes at him and he brightened further. “and an alpha,” he added as if he found it comforting. 

Before she could speak, before she could try and comfort him and assure him that she, somehow, would get him home to his dad, two boys burst into the hospital room and Stiles jolted with pain. His wrist was aching madly and his head was pounding. He was sure that he would have a bruise and a bump in no time. He recognised them instantly, not just as the guys that had taken him to the hospital, but as they were in his time. Chris Argent and Peter Hale and… his dad, still sleeping in his chair. This was stupid, and way too much for him to comprehend, way to much. 

“Mum?” the person that he was now sure was Peter Hale approached the woman, “who the hell is this kid?” It seemed that even with the torture and the madness gone from his eyes Peter still retained his brashness. He wasn’t subtle, not even a little bit. 

Bethany, seemingly used to the quickness of her son, didn’t falter in answering. 

“His name is Stiles Fallon, we’re taking him home,” everyone in the room looked at her in surprise and what would soon be disagreement. Stiles was looking at her in confusion and she pretended not to notice. She might not of known quite who he was, but he was friends with his grandson, wanted his daddy and she thought that was enough for her to take care of him. She couldn’t go jeopardising his soon-to-be grandson’s happiness now could she? 

From the chair John began to wake up. 

“Wha-”

“You don’t even know him!” Peter interjected, next to him Chris was looking deeply suspicious, so much so that he was tempted to take the knife from his ankle. 

“He has a point,” the kid muttered, not looking anyone in the eye. Peter had to admit, he didn’t look like someone who would raise any havoc, but just adopting some kid was absurd, idiotic, stupid. His mum was a smart lady, he didn’t think that she would do anything that she wasn’t sure about, but still. People shouldn’t just take random kids home just because they shed a few tears, surely the kid had a place to stay anyway. His parents must have been super worried. 

John blinked. 

“Mrs Hale, if anyone should be taking him home it should be me, I ran him down in the first place.” 

A chorus of ‘No’s went through the hospital room and John sunk back down into his chair, dispirited. 

“Johnny, thats fine sweetheart. You can come and visit him when he stays with us.” The conversation continued he was sure, but his eyes were slipping closed. He was so tired and everything hurt so much and he was on so many drugs. 

When he awoke again he was in Derek’s bedroom only nothing was scorched, he could smell pancakes, and he was fairly sure that was a jukebox.


End file.
